


Unwanted Guests

by Ammar



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Forum: Goldenlake, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammar/pseuds/Ammar
Summary: An entirely peaceful evening is disrupted; first by Faleron and then by some Tyran guests. Zahir is not amused. Slightly crack.





	Unwanted Guests

"Truly," murmured Zahir ibn Alhaz with considerable poise, considering the fact that a man was currently bleeding out on his dining table, "If you _must_ break into a man's home by his balcony and bleed on his things, could you at least demonstrate the courtesy of not also proceeding to die there?"  
  
Faleron of King's Reach grinned weakly at his yearmate. "Hello to you too, Zahir. Think you could help me get the arrow?"  
  
Zahir raised an elegant eyebrow as he glanced at the arrow in question--protruding as it was from Faleron's side. "I am not a healer," he said, enunciating each word, slowly and clearly. Despite his words, he swiftly slit open Faleron's clothing and examined the wound. "What kind of arrow?”  
  
“Broadhead,” Faleon muttered. “Why else do you think I’m bleeding everywhere?”  
  
“Tsk,” Zahir clucked. “And I don’t suppose it occurred to you to be considerate enough to bring me one?”  
  
Faleron rolled his eyes. “It’s a standard-issue broadhead, Zahir. You handled them all the time in page training, remember?”  
  
Flatly, Zahir said, “That’s different. I prefer to know _exactly_ what I’m pulling out of you, King’s Reach.” He assessed the wound and the bleeding, shook his head, retreated and rummaged about in the pantry, before returning with a healer’s kit and a bottle of pale Scanran spirits.  
  
“Where did you get _that_ from?”  
  
“A wise man never reveals his sources,” Zahir said, waving the bottle admonishingly. He tossed the akvavit over to Faleron. “Drink. You’ll have to buy me something suitably nice to replace this; I was looking forward to trying this out.”  
  
"Tell me something new," Faleron smirked, but obediently worked open the cork, releasing a sharp fragrance of orange peel-scented alcohol. He tipped a good amount of it down his throat. “You want some?”  
  
Zahir shook his head. “I think you’ll need it all,” came the reply, as Zahir dug in his healer’s kit, searching amongst the various implements. Faleron did his best to focus on the burn as the akvavit went down his throat, rather than the sheer number of knives and pliers and all sorts of other tools Zahir seemed to have with him.  
  
Finally, Zahir turned back to him, holding a tool that Faleron didn’t recognise. (Not that Faleron would admit to having any training in the healer’s craft. For that matter, he was surprised that Zahir knew as much as he did.)  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“You are incredibly inquisitive for a man who has been shot by a broadhead,” Zahir replied, and Faleron bit out a curse as Zahir--without further ado--snapped the protruding shaft and used the tool to collect the located broadhead and carefully retrieve it from the wound.  
  
At least the akvavit helped, a little. He drank more.  
  
"You cry like a child."  
  
“Don’t you have the decency to warn a man before you go about plucking out the arrow?” Faleron muttered.  
  
Zahir simply regarded him with a look that said he thought Faleron was being clearly over-dramatic. “What good would that do?” he wanted to know, holding up the bloodstained arrowhead, still clutched in that strange tool he’d used. “Would you prefer to have the arrow remain?”  
  
He set aside both shaft and arrowhead and then proceeded to liberally daub a stinging balm on Faleron’s wound. “Ow—what’s that?”  
  
“You really need to work on that curiosity,” Zahir murmured. “Queenscove sends his regards. Unless you also prefer that the wound fester?”  
  
Faleron just rolled his eyes and drank his akvavit as Zahir proceeded to wrap a bandage around the site of the wound, working with quick, deft movements.  
  
“Did you ever expect this would happen?” he asked, eventually. “Us—being where we are now?”  
  
Zahir tied off the bandage and regarded him; that preternatural calm of his never seemed to leave him, Faleron thought. It sometimes made him extremely frustrating to deal with. “I try not to expect too much, King’s Reach,” Zahir said, at last. “It makes life much less complicated this way. I trust you have not led your ‘friends’ to my door?”  
  
This time, Faleron really did snort, and almost spilled akvavit over his bared torso. “Please,” he said. “Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Zahir.”  
  
“Is there anything our mutual friend needs to know?” Zahir asked, acknowledging the point.  
  
Faleron thought about it. He wasn’t going anywhere fast, after all, and he knew the Bazhir had a system of message-hawks that might be far more efficient than a lone man, riding a string of lathered horses back to the next point in the chain. “Pocket of my vest,” he said, gesturing to the damasked silk vest that Zahir had immediately relieved him of. “No, the lining.”  
  
Zahir pre-emptorily slit it open—Faleron winced, he’d _liked_ that vest—and produced the packet of information. To his credit, he didn’t glance at it at all; merely said, “I’ll see to it.”  
  
A pounding on the door.  
  
Zahir’s eyes narrowed and he shot Faleron a _look_. “Tracker mage,” Faleron guessed. He’d led them on a long and convoluted trail, but he’d bled out quite a bit, and it was always possible to follow a trail of fresh blood.  
  
“So be it,” Zahir responded, shaking his head. He threw his tools and the bloodstained rags (wiping his hands off on them first) into his healer’s kit and shoved it into Faleron’s hands. “Go.”  
  
He gave Faleron a few minutes to make himself scarce, spat to make sure his hands were clean, and strode over to the door of his suite. He pulled it open, taking his time.  
  
“Yes?” Zahir demanded.  
  
He kept his expression from darkening only through long practice at Jonathan’s councils. He recognised the man and the woman who stood before him; the former was the mage-advisor to the Tyran Ambassador, while the latter was the personal swordswoman and bodyguard to the said Ambassador. Right now, a fresh line of blood had split her right cheek, and she looked absolutely out for blood. There was still a trace of dark indigo witchlight burning about the mage’s splayed fingers.  
  
“Sir Zahir ibn Alhaz,” the mage greeted. The swordswoman merely looked at him as if he was an obstacle that, had she a preference, she would simply cut down.  
  
“ _Ser_ Giacomo Albani,” he acknowledged, dredging the names up from memory. “ _Donna_ Bianca Rossi.”  
  
Giacomo smiled, though Zahir could read the eagerness and anticipation in his posture, in the way the vestiges of witchlight still played between his fingers. “Ambassador. We find ourselves in the unfortunate position of having to intrude upon you this night.”  
  
Coldly, Zahir said, “I am not accustomed to entertaining guests at late hours.”  
  
“This is not a guest visit,” Rossi ground out. Giacomo shot her a look of thinly-veiled warning, as her fingers closed about the hilt of her sword.  
  
“Do you intend insult, then?” Zahir queried, in the same, icy tone that Jonathan had used on occasion when a council member had overstepped. “Should I collect my sword and demand recompense for this? Or is this an insult directed towards the Bazhir, and by extension, the kingdom of Tortall?”  
  
Giacomo said, “I believe we’ve begun on the wrong foot, Ambassador. N.H. Enrico Velasca sends his regards and apologies for the night’s disruption. Unfortunately, our embassy was the victim of a foreign spy—which nation he served, we cannot yet say. We have reason to believe he has fled here, and intends to wreak further mischief on Tortallan interests.” He spread his hands out, in a hapless shrug, the last of his Gift fading away, leaving them in the steady glow of lantern-light. “Who can say what such a foul entity might do? This is an affair that affects both our interests, and in such a spirit, we hope you might aid us in our search, that both our nations may prosper together. _Si?_ "  
  
Zahir replied, “I notice you offer me no assurances that the spy exists. Have I any assurance that this is no calculated plot to have me turned out of my own suite as a criminal, while the guards search that which is mine?”  
  
Impatiently, Rossi snapped, “He’s toying with us. Playing for time.”  
  
Zahir said, dispassionately, “I have my kingdom’s interests to consider, as your counterpart has acknowledged. What am I to say of any mischief—of any unfriendly spells, for instance, or devices that you might leave in your wake?”  
  
“Then accompany us, of your courtesy,” Giacomo said. “We will not infringe upon your hospitality for very long. You have my word, Sir Zahir.”  
  
Zahir waited—an immeasurably long moment. Rossi’s scowl grew deeper, and even Giacomo, for all he attempted to conceal it, was perceptibly impatient. Eventually, he dipped his head in a graceful nod. “Very well,” he said, sharply. “Then let us have this indignity done with.”  
  
He spun on his heel and invited them in. They strode in; the mage bringing his Gift to the fore once again, searching. Rossi’s steel was an inch from her scabbard—if it cleared completely, Zahir was going to call his guards and have her thrown out completely.  
  
He did not want to cross swords with the Tyran woman infamous for making as many widows as there were men who had opposed her. He did not entirely wish to die, not just yet. He had not tired of this life, as…unduly exciting as people like Faleron seemed inclined to make it.  
  
They stalked through each of the rooms in his luxurious suite. He kept a neat and spartan living space; wanderers as they were, the Bazhir were not in the habit of accumulating possessions, and it was a habit that Zahir kept, even now.   
  
The mage paused at the open balcony and frowned, studying the glittering fire in his hands. “Do you make a habit of having your quarters warded against magecraft, Ambassador?”  
  
“Does your Ambassador not do the same?” Zahir countered. “Surely you know as well as I do that privacy cannot be taken for granted; any number of scrying spells and such can be targeted against us.”  
  
It was standard practice: Giacomo had to concede that. Meanwhile, Rossi bent down, scrutinising a stain of drying blood on the floor. “Giacomo—blood!” she called out, and the mage hurried over to inspect it. “It looks fresh,” Rossi said, touching it with a finger. She frowned up at Zahir in suspicion.  
  
Faleron had missed this patch, Zahir could only conclude. He affected a careless shrug. “I must claim the blame for this one, I am afraid. You caught me while I was communing.”  
  
“Communing?” Giacomo asked, with a frown. A flicker of light at his fingers indicated what was most likely a truth spell. Zahir focused on thoughts of sand, of home, of what it felt to commune at the deepest level of self; to partake with the one who was not merely the Northern King, not merely Jonathan of the Bloody Hawk, but the one who was Voice.  
  
“I am Bazhir,” Zahir said, willing the man to hear the sound of truth in his words. “Most Bazhir partake of the Moment of the Voice. It is the one ritual that all who are Bazhir undertake. This far from home, it is…comforting.”  
  
“He lies,” Rossi said, flatly. “He’s hiding the spy.”  
  
“And the blood?” Giacomo asked.  
  
Zahir shrugged. “Some of us do not have the Gift,” he conceded. “And it is a long way from the desert. The fire helps us focus on our connection to the Voice. But without fire, blood will suffice.” He turned over his bared right arm, forearm up, so they could see the long scar snaking down from his wrist, crusted with blood. Faleron’s blood, really. But they didn’t need to know that. “We are all one in blood.”  
  
They looked at each other: Rossi angry, suspicious, Giacomo thoughtful, considering. Their search had not turned up anyone; Zahir had made certain of that.  
  
Eventually, Giacomo bowed his head. “We are sorry for the intrusion, Sir Zahir,” he said, courteously. “We will leave you to your communion, then.”  
  
Zahir showed them out, careful to keep Giacomo between himself and Rossi. He had the feeling that Giacomo knew as much; certainly, the man, too, seemed to be eager to avoid any kind of incident. He closed the door on them, waited—for what seemed like far too long—and only then, did he carefully exhale and allow his shoulders to drop.

  
He strode over to the bookshelf in the study and rapped, in a curious pattern of mingled long and short knocks. Then, he pulled on the affixed copy of _A Common Critique of Chivalry_ and the bookshelf rotated about a cunningly-wrought hidden hinge, taking Zahir with it.  
  
Faleron was there; knees pulled up against his chest, clutching Zahir’s healer’s kit and still drinking his akvavit. He raised it in a silent salute to Zahir as the Bazhir knight and ambassador strode over to him.  
  
“I’m not doing this again,” Zahir snapped. “This was not in the job description.” It had never been, he reflected, when the king had appointed him to the position of Bazhir Ambassador, whatever that was supposed to mean. He certainly _hadn’t_ expected it to involve being dragged into whatever schemes the Realm’s spies sought to inflict upon him on a semi-regular basis.  
  
Faleron tossed him the bottle of akvavit and he caught it. “Drink,” Faleron advised, echoing Zahir’s earlier words. “You look like you could use it.”  
  
Zahir sighed, and tipped the akvavit down his throat. He was going to have to thank Sir Miles’s agents, he thought, moodily. It was, at least, very good akvavit.

**Author's Note:**

> Read in the spirit of lighthearted capers! (Also, you've got to wonder why Tortall doesn't deploy more Bazhir/Bazhir-adopted in their intelligence networks--or maybe they already do! I mean, it's got to be really taxing for the Voice, but think about it: it's a way to get information reliably, uninterceptably and instantaneously across distances.)


End file.
